


a little less thinking

by thisismy_design (thisismydesignn)



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Sex, Smut, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismy_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Alaric damn near killed him, and losing him was awful. He was his wingman, drinking buddy -- I'm sure they occasionally made out." --Ian Somerhalder (<a href="http://www.tvguide.com/News/Vampire-Diaries-100-Episode-1076354.aspx?rss=breakingnews">x</a>)</p>
<p>A bit of smut, a bit of angst and a whole lot of drinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little less thinking

**Author's Note:**

> Ian just _had_ to go and make that comment about Alaric and Damon, and I couldn't get it out of my mind. Then "500 Years of Solitude" basically ruined me, so. This happened.
> 
> Title from "You Look Better When I'm Drunk" by The White Tie Affair.

“This is weird. It’s weird, right? It should be weird.”

“Ric. Shut up.”

(Maybe it should be weird. Maybe it shouldn’t make so much _sense_ for Damon to drag Alaric forward, kiss away the taste of bourbon that lingers on his lips, his tongue— but fuck it, it _does._ )

(Damon’s never been one to look too closely at anything that gets him laid, anyway.)

“Wait, wait—” and doesn’t Ric _ever_ shut up? Damon pulls away with a long-suffering sigh, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

“Just— no biting, okay?”

_That_ earns him an eye roll, and Damon doesn’t stop to think as he leans in to sink his teeth— human teeth— into Alaric’s neck.

“What the fuck, man?” And Damon can’t help but grin even as he’s shoved away, unable to resist when he sees the look on Alaric’s face.

“I can _control_ myself, Ric. I think I’ve picked up a thing or two over the past two hundred years.”

“Yeah, well, it’s you, so—”

“You _really_ need to shut up.”

Ric lets himself be pulled forward, opens up beneath Damon’s touch and despite his protests, Damon feels his lips curve into a smile as they kiss. (He’s starting to wonder why they haven’t done this before— why they haven’t been doing this for ages, actually.) He kisses harder, presses closer; making up for lost time, and all that.

Their drinks lie forgotten on the table beside the couch, and that’s a first, too: Damon’s tolerance is through the roof, but one taste of Ric’s lips and he’s feeling lightheaded, weak in the fucking _knees_ and what the fuck, who would’ve guessed. Intoxicated by the scratch of Alaric’s stubble along his jaw, fingers slipping under Damon’s shirt, teasing along the waist of his jeans…

This time it’s Damon who pulls back, and Alaric takes the chance to catch his breath, lean his forehead against Damon’s and grin, lips red and shining and Damon’s _impossibly_ turned on, wants to press him against the couch and sink his teeth into his neck _properly_ and—

Right. Self-control.

“You gonna do anything about that?” he asks instead, tries to keep his voice even as he glances down at the hand on his stomach, fingertips on the verge of dipping lower. But Ric, Ric is _impossible_ , that stupid grin still lingering on his lips as he leans forward, mouth brushing Damon’s, murmuring, “You gonna make me?”

And of _course_ he’d turn this into a challenge, fighting Damon every step of the way, but Damon would be lying if he said he’d expected anything else.

In a moment, less, he has Alaric on his back, pushing his shirt up, unzipping his jeans and dragging them out of the way. He trails his fingers over Ric’s half-hard cock through his boxers until Ric’s arching up into his touch, trying to bite back his moans. _Well, we can’t have that._

Tugging the offending fabric down Alaric’s thighs, Damon doesn’t hesitate. He licks a stripe along Ric’s cock and swallows him down in a way that should _probably_ be impossible, but then, not needing to breathe has its perks.

Ric, though; Ric’s trying to remember _how_ to breathe _,_ rewarding Damon with a long, low moan as he reaches down to fist a hand in his hair. Damon’s too good at this, centuries of experience evident in the way he reduces Ric to a shuddering mess in a matter of minutes. Fingers tightening in his hair far too soon, he’s not ready for this to be over (the best blowjob he’s had in years, or maybe ever), but Damon seems to know, pulls back and crawls up his body before Alaric has a chance to react.

Damon kisses him, messy, hungry, and Ric can taste himself on Damon’s tongue— it’s disconcerting but he’s too turned on to care, chasing the lingering hint of bourbon with a desperation he’ll later deny.

“You taste good,” Damon tells him, murmuring low and dangerous as he noses along Alaric’s neck. “Sure about that whole ‘no biting’ thing?” because he can’t resist messing with him, staying just this side of _too far_ but Ric’s eyes darken and he thinks— maybe. Maybe not this time, but _maybe,_ and even the thought has Damon grinding his hips down against Ric’s bare thighs, his own desperation clear.

“C’mere,” Ric mutters, fumbling with Damon’s jeans, shoving them aside just enough to wrap his fingers around Damon’s cock. He can’t help but press his own hips up, and Damon gets the hint. Their hands brush as they jerk one another off and the air between them is thick, electric; for _once_ they’re silent, the only noises the hitch of Alaric’s breath and Damon’s broken moans.

Then Damon takes them both in hand and Ric’s head falls back against the couch with a groan. It’s overwhelming and it’s incredible, bare skin and the heat of Damon’s touch and the way their hips slot together perfectly. Damon twists his wrist and Ric can’t, he _can’t,_ manages to tell him, “S’too much,” and without missing a beat, Damon’s between his legs once more. Fingers around the base of Alaric’s cock and tongue beneath the head, Damon’s mouth slips down as he swallows around his length, one hand against Ric’s hips hard enough to bruise.

He can feel it even before Ric floods his mouth, fingers grasping desperately at his shoulders, heartbeat stuttering in his chest; Damon smirks as he swallows, unreasonably proud of his ability to render Alaric speechless, helpless— breathless.

He doesn’t linger, though, licking his lips as he straddles Ric’s hips, looking down at his wrecked form as he takes his own cock in hand. His strokes are quick, purposeful, and when Ric reaches out half-heartedly to help, Damon bats his hand away without a second thought.

“Just as delicious as I expected,” because Damon can’t help it, loves to hear himself speak, knows what it does to Ric, too— feels his spent cock twitch, and rocks back against it, teasing. “I wonder if you’d let me taste something else next time…” and his fingers trace over Ric’s chest, his neck—

—and the last thing he’s expecting is for Ric to arch back, bare his throat, glint in his eye like a challenge, relentless. Damon’s rhythm stutters, grip tightening around his cock as his fingers press harder against Ric’s skin, and he’s coming like he’s coming undone, trembling, hardly able to hold himself up.

So he doesn’t.

Alaric groans at the feeling of Damon’s skin pressed to his own, the mess between them unbelievable— he’d shove him away, but he’s still not sure he can move, not sure he trusts his limbs enough to try.

“So that happened,” he offers, entirely unhelpful and Damon laughs, mouth pressed to his neck. Ric prods at his side, muttering, “Will you—”

“Alright, alright,” and Damon drags himself up, looking down at Alaric with a barely-concealed smirk. “Well, don’t you look lovely.”

He turns away to reach for his drink and Ric eases his boxers up over his hips, wincing as he brushes over the mess on his stomach. “Hand me mine?”

Damon obliges as he takes a sip of his own, making a face as it passes his lips; with a glance at Alaric’s raised eyebrow, he explains, “Doesn’t mix well.” His eyes linger over Ric’s debauched appearance and he shrugs, raises the glass again. “Worth it.”

Ric waits until he’s done drinking, laces his free hand into Damon’s hair and kisses him deeply, deliberately, tongue in his mouth and lips moving none too gently over his own.

“Tastes alright to me,” he says when they break apart, and he could _swear_ Damon is just as breathless as he is; he knows it makes no sense, but Damon kisses him again and he forgets to care.

\---

It’s far from the last time.

There’s the times they’ve just killed— it doesn’t matter what, vampire, werewolf— the rush of adrenaline in their veins and they can’t keep their hands off each other, don’t even bother to try. There’s the times they’ve spent half the night drinking, a slow burn in the way Damon looks at Ric from under his lashes, licking bourbon from his lips and spreading his legs a bit too wide.

Sometimes they’re hurried, stumbling to Ric’s car in the Grill parking lot, making out in the backseat, rutting against each other like horny teenagers. Other times, they’re lazy, lethargic, stretched out on the couch at the boarding house or— on a few memorable occasions— Damon’s bed.

(Alaric waking up beside Damon, blinking in the sunlight and groaning at the inevitable hangover— it’s not something Damon ever anticipated, nor how much he wants to kiss him.)

(So he kisses him, and tries not to think too hard about what, exactly, all this means.)

\---

By the time he realizes, it’s too late.

\---

They’re toasting to Katherine, to the horrible things she’s done, and Damon can think of one or two of his own. _If Ric were here,_ he thinks, and stops, because he learned long ago that he has no use for “if.”

But then—

“Ric’s here?”

And he knows, he _knows,_ “He’s talking about me, isn’t he?” and all he can think of is all the things he wants to say, can’t say, because what good would it do? Thinks of every missed chance (he got the girl, he lost the girl), but he’s still got the glass in his hand, and he raises it in a toast to the one person who fucking _mattered._

“Cheers, buddy,” and it’s nowhere near enough but it’s all he has to offer.

(He imagines he can almost hear Alaric’s “cheers” in response, quiet, that damn smile playing over his lips and Damon _misses_ him, misses his touch, his taste, the sight of his white knuckles curled around a glass and the way that he’d never shut up when he should.)

He takes another drink because he doesn’t know what else to do; remembers the way it tasted on Alaric’s lips and the glass in his hand threatens to shatter.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he hears Ric’s voice, ages ago, “I still see something in you”— can’t for the life of him think of what it was, but his grip loosens and the last of the booze goes down smoothly, the burn in his throat easing the sting behind his eyes.

(Maybe it should be weird. Maybe Damon shouldn’t keep— holding on like this, drinking too much like it’ll bring him back, or at least make it hurt less. Maybe it makes no sense, but fuck it, he thinks: it’s the best he’s got.)

(The alternative is just too damn depressing, so he’ll keep saving that seat, waiting for a glimpse, even a _hint_ of his ghost. Alaric’s still looking out for Damon, though god knows why; the least he can do is return the favor, raise a glass in his name and think too much about the glint in Ric’s eye, the edge of his smile. He’s turned off, forgotten everything else that hurts— this is the worst of it, but it’s the one he can’t let go.)

_Cheers, buddy._

_(Cheers.)_


End file.
